


Know Your Place At My Side

by Romiress



Category: Batman (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Branding, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, No Smut, POV Multiple, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-01-31 02:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21438868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress
Summary: What if Jason was still at the Casino at the start of City of Bane?
Relationships: Jason Todd/Thomas Wayne
Comments: 13
Kudos: 116





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scandalsavage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalsavage/gifts).
**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one's coming to help him, and Jason knows it.

He's in his office when they come for him. Something punches through his window, going too fast for Jason to register. Small, maybe a miniature missile, and he dives under the desk both for shelter and to get access to the guns hidden there.

It's not a missile. There's no explosion, just the sudden hiss of gas being vented into the room. He snatches the hidden gun and rolls clear of the desk. He goes for the door right as what remains of his window gets kicked by something big.

Bruce.

That's what his brain says when he spares a glance: _ Bruce. _ Bruce in full gear, the Batman coming for him with his metaphorical guns out, weapons blazing.

Which doesn't make sense, because as far as he knows they've got something that approximates a truce (even if it's more of him having Bruce's balls over the fire).

What makes even less sense is that, when he double takes, he realizes that the metaphorical guns are _ literal _ guns.

That isn't Bruce.

The fight is vicious and short. Batman—not Bruce, definitely not Bruce—has all the cards. He's got the element of surprise, he's fully equipped, and his armor will stand up to any shot Jason manages to take. Meanwhile, Jason has the gun from under his desk and a suit that doesn't even give him as much flexibility as a pair of jeans. He goes for the drawer with his mask, but he doesn't reach it before he's forced to dodge an incoming punch.

With no protection, he's forced to breathe whatever's in the air. It's some kind of sedative, and he can feel himself slowing as he goes for the window. The door's blocked off, but the window? If he dives the right way he can make it to the water, and maybe the fake Batman will lose him.

He doesn't make it there. The fake Batman catches his ankle as he tries to go out the window, slamming him too floor and knocking the breath out of him.

The fight is already lost, but Jason makes one last ditch effort, hitting his phone's emergency button. They won't be fast enough to help—he doesn't even think they'll come—but at the very least they'll know _ something _ is wrong.

That's all he can hope for.

* * *

When Jason wakes, there is absolutely no question that he's fucked. His entire body aches, and when he tries to shift and check for injuries, he realizes he can't even move his arms. Someone—probably the fake Batman—has wrapped his arms in restraints that bind his arms together from elbow to hand. Something similar is on his legs, and he's been gagged and blindfolded. It _ severely _ limits his options, and he spends what must be ten minutes trying to squirm his way free before he gives up.

Fuck.

The odds of a rescue are infinitesimal, which means all he can do is sit and wait. Eventually, someone's going to come. Eventually, he'll have a better understanding of what's going on. He'll find a way out. He always has before.

Except that one time.

He shivers at the thought, and there's a faint noise. Someone's there. Someone's in the room.

Jason cocks his head, trying to hear the sound again, but it's gone silent. He gets the impression that someone is in the room watching him, but it's nothing more than that: an impression. He doesn't have any way of checking. Doesn't have any way of confirming.

He makes a noise through the gag, hoping for a reaction, but doesn't get one.

He waits, his legs and arms cramping in the restraints as he lays on the floor for what seems like a very long time. He's snapped back to reality by the sound of heavy footsteps, and Jason twists again, trying to listen as the footsteps grow closer.

Big. Whoever it is, they're big. The footsteps are so heavy that whoever it is must make Bruce look small, and considering how many villains match that criteria...

Things aren't exactly looking great.

"A bat," a voice says above him, and Jason goes stiff because fuck, he _ recognizes _ that voice. He knows the accent. _ Bane. _ Bane, who's supposed to be incarcerated in Arkham, only apparently not. "A little baby bat who flew too far from the cave it calls home."

There's a hand on him, and Jason chokes as Bane simply lifts him up by the front of his shirt, the fabric starting to tear as it tries to hold his entire weight. He can't move his legs enough to use them to support himself, and he feels like a worm on a hook, unable to escape.

If Bane wants Jason to banter with him, he's going to have to remove the gag. Jason tries to chew on it to sell the point, but Bane isn't buying, dropping him suddenly. Jason's knees crack against the floor and he doubles over. There's no point pretending to _ not _ be Red Hood considering who Bane is, but there's not a substantial difference anyway. Red Hood is just as screwed as Jason Todd is in this situation.

Bane's fingers drag through his hair, and Jason jerks his head away, nearly toppling over.

"We'll send his body back to the Bats who remain," Bane says. "It will help them understand just what the situation is."

"No," a voice says. Jason doesn't recognize it, but it's deep and gruff. It can't be more than two or three feet away, which means it's _ probably _ the voice of the man who was watching him before Bane got there.

"No?"

"I'd prefer to keep him," the voice says, and Jason feels another set of fingers drag along his scalp. He tries again to twist away, but the fingers grab his hair, holding him tight and keeping him from moving.

"For?" Bane seems baffled by the request, and Jason has no idea if that's a good thing or not. Considering Bane was apparently planning to kill him and send his body to the Bats (the _ remaining _ Bats?) he guesses it's probably a good thing.

"My reasons are my own," the voice says.

"I will need guarantees that I won't see him on their side in the future," Bane says.

The fingers in his hair tighten. His scalp is practically screaming in pain, but every ounce of Jason's focus is on the conversation happening above him. He needs to hear this.

"And you'll have them."

Bane seems silent for far too long—are they communicating silently?—and then makes a noise of assent.

"Ensure he doesn't escape," Bane says. "By whatever means you deem necessary."

Jason hears Bane turn and leave. He hears a door close. He has no idea where he is, but the floor seems to be wood, and the smell is neutral rather than musty. Inside a building of some sort, but not an old warehouse like he'd expect to see Bane in. It's more like a house.

...It's just like the manor. That makes his heart pound harder in his chest, because everything seems to line up with the dining room in the manor. The same kind of smell. The same wood flooring.

He tells himself there's probably a million places that meet the same criteria, but he can't get the thought out of his mind.

The hand in his hair abruptly releases, and Jason sags down, the muscles in his back strained from having held the position for so long. He feels gloved fingers—fuck, it's the _ fake Batman, _isn't it?—drag down the side of his face. One hooks at the side of the gag, and it abruptly releases.

Jason spits the gag out, spluttering as he tries to clear his mouth. Fuck. Alright, he's only going to have one chance at this, so he's going to need to be careful.

"Alright—" He starts, only to abruptly be cut off. The bastard grabs his face, fingers digging into the flesh of his cheeks and half-covering his mouth.

"Think carefully," the voice says, "before you speak."

Jason isn't the cowardly type. Realistically, none of the Bats are. But the situation is enough to at least make him hesitate. Enough to make him second guess what he's going to say.

"...What do you want?" He finally settles on, his words muffled by the hand across his face.

"An excellent question," the man says. "What I want is your compliance. The nature of that compliance will change greatly depending on how you behave."

Compliance. Great, some idiot's kidnapped him and is hoping for _ compliance? _

"Then you got the wrong Bat."

Or really, he's barking up the wrong tree completely. None of them are likely to play along with whoever this lunatic is.

"I am confident you'll do as I wish, one way or another."

Jason wants to argue, but his mouth feels dry. It's not that the fight has gone out of him: it's that the stakes suddenly feel far higher than normal. He's been outmaneuvered in a way that almost never happens, stuck without his gear behind enemy lines with no backup. There's no rescue coming for him, and worst of all, he has no idea who the bastard toying with him is.

Oh, and he's completely helpless.

It's not a great situation, to say the least.

"Why don't you tell me what kind of compliance you want," Jason says carefully.

"I have been told," the man says, and his voice moves as if he's bending down beside Jason, "that of all the Bats, you are the one who most understands the truth. That you alone recognize the futility of Batman's insistence on saving the lives of people who would return his kindness by murdering children."

He's right, but Jason isn't going to tell him that.

Instead, he headbutts him.

Jason's forehead impacts something that's probably the guy's face with a very satisfying crunch. It isn't going to help—he's still tied up—but _ damn _ if it isn't satisfying.

There's a curse and the sound of his captor pulling back that mostly gets lost in the noise of Jason hitting the floor. He curls inward, protecting his soft bits, but there's no retribution. He's expecting it, but it doesn't come. There's no reign of blows. No punch to the head. He's just left there.

"...You'll come to regret that," the voice says from above him, and then Jason hears his footsteps as he heads for the door.

The door opens. The door shuts.

It sounds just like the door to the manor's dining room, and Jason wishes it didn't.

* * *

He's left waiting for a long time. Long enough that almost every muscle in his body feels like it's seizing up by the time the door opens again. He's not together enough to get a feel for the weight of the footsteps, but he doesn't have to wait long anyway.

"It's time for you to understand your new place in things," the man from before says, and Jason suddenly finds himself hauled to his knees. His head is swimming and his mouth is dry, but it's hard to miss the distinctive _ snick _of a knife being flicked open.

Shit.

It's a fifty fifty shot. Stay still and avoid getting hurt if he's doing something minor, or move and avoid getting murdered?

He doesn't get a choice. One large hand grabs his shoulder, holding him firmly in place, and the other goes to work. It takes him a moment to realize what the hell he's doing, that he's just sawing off Jason's clothes like they're nothing.

"Hey!" He protests. "Those are expensi—"

The blow to his head makes him wheeze. It takes him a bit to recover, and in that time inch after inch of clothing is peeled off him. There's a click, and the restraints on his arms are suddenly off, and Jason makes a furious attempt to punch the guy in the face again. He needs space. He just needs a minute, and he can get away—

No dice. The bastards waiting for it, and he catches Jason's hand, squeezing it in one gauntleted hand until Jason hears his bones start to crack.

Even behind the blindfold he's seeing stars as he crashes back down to the floor. He's lost what remains of his shirt, the shredded remains little more than tatters, and the restraints on his legs coming off doesn't let him relax at all. The opposite, really: if the bastard is leaving him unbound, that means he has reason to believe Jason isn't going to be going anywhere.

Jason loses his pants. Somewhere along the way he ends up on his back. He's still fighting, still struggling, but the fear in his chest just keeps growing. Something's going wrong. No, something _ has _ gone wrong. He doesn't even know how long ago, but he knows that something before this point must have led to it.

A hand crushes his windpipe, squeezing until Jason's barely holding onto consciousness before he releases him.

"You aren't his," the man says. "Now you're mine."

He's naked. He's naked and helpless and no one's coming for him.

There's a noise and—and god, it is the manor, because the man's starting a fire as Jason chokes for breath on the floor, wheezing as he tries to catch his breath.

"Don't do this," Jason says. He doesn't know what he's asking for, but he knows he doesn't want it. He can feel the heat of the fire. His entire body is screaming in pain, his throat worst of all.

"You need to remember whose you are," the man says. "Tell me. Whose are you?"

He doesn't know what answer he wants. He doesn't even know who the guy _ is. _

"Fuck if I know," he hisses.

"See? You don't remember. That's why you need a reminder."

Jason lies on his back, panting heavily and waiting for a blow that doesn't come. The bastard's just standing over him, watching him like some kind of sick fuck. He's just waiting. Waiting for what, though?

"It's time," the man says. Jason doesn't know how long it's been. His heart's pounding away in his chest. Only once before has he been so terrified.

Jason makes one last attempt to get away when the man moves towards the fire. He rolls, trying to get his legs under him, but they're still cramping and painful, and his right one gives out before he even manages to fully stand, sending him tumbling to the ground.

A hand grabs his ankle, dragging him back across the floor towards the fire. He's flipped, his head spinning, and he chokes down vomit as he does. Things are out of control.

Jason doesn't get much warning. A hand presses down on his torso, pressing him to the ground to keep him in place, and then something _ burning hot _ is pressed to his pectoral.

He screams.

He can't not scream, the pain white hot and intense. He can smell his flesh burning as the brand is held there—as he's _ branded, _ he realizes—and he feels the man's full weight press down on his stomach, keeping him from moving as the other holds his shoulders to keep him from twisting.

He screams until his throat is raw, and only then is the brand pulled away.

Jason's pretty sure he blacks out. His sense of continuity—of one moment to the next—changes from moment to moment. At some point, he loses the blindfold. The false Batman hauls him up, pulling Jason's bare back to his chest, his hand spread out on his stomach, holding him still.

"Jason," he says, and Jason makes a choked noise. "Who do you belong to?"

"Fuck off," he chokes. That's all he can manage.

"I can make this much harder on you," the man says simply, and something in his voice makes Jason's blood runs cold. No. He can't.

He struggles, but it's weak. He needs water and food and sleep, and _ not _ to be tortured by some lunatic.

"Who do you belong to?" The man repeats, his hand pressed tight to Jason. He hasn't moved, but the threat is there anyway.

Fuck. _ Fuck. _

He knows the answer the bastard wants. He should have known it from the start. Maybe if he'd said it to begin with he'd have made it out without a fucking _ brand _ on his chest.

"Say it," he says, "and I'll let you rest tonight."

He needs the rest. If he doesn't, he's going to... he doesn't even know. Drop dead from the strain? It seems terrifyingly possible.

"Say it."

His mouth is dry.

"Who owns you?"

It feels like he's selling himself out when he opens his mouth to answer, but he has no choice. He _ has _ to say it.

"...Batman."

Batman owns him, and it's his symbol which mark's Jason's chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They don't come for him.

When Jason wakes, he's not in pain. The memories swim to the surface, foggy and indistinct, and his head throbs with a sensation that doesn't even seem to  _ have _ a feeling attached to it.

He's been drugged. He has no idea what he's on, but whatever it is, it's heavy duty. His hands wander up, scraping across bandages, and his hand ends up resting over his heart.

Where the brand is. The fuckign  _ bat _ brand, the symbol he's lived his whole life under.

Jason wheezes and forces himself out of bed.

It isn't his bed. He's pretty sure it's Bruces, the nice big one in the master bedroom where he used to go when he was scared as a child. He tries not to think about it.

His feet feel wobbly and unstable as he heads for the door, expecting to find it locked. It isn't, and he braces himself against the door for a moment, panting heavily. It's bad. Everything about this is a bad idea. He should be in bed, resting, only he might never get another chance. For all he knows, the bastard's only left him untied because he thinks Jason's too weak to escape.

He turns away from the lobby and heads farther down the hallway. There's a window there on a slightly different security protocol. He knows because he set it up that way, making sure he'd always be able to slip back into the manor without Bruce knowing if he needed. He tries to keep quiet as he does, but it's not as easy as he wishes. He just has to—he just needs to stay on his feet.

He leans against the wall, sucking in another deep breath, and rounds the corner.

It's a testament to how drugged up he is that he can't even stop himself in time. Instead, he slams directly into someone, toppling backwards before a hand shoots out, grabbing his upper arm and stopping him from falling.

"Careful," a voice says, and  _ fuck _ because it's the goddamn— _ he's _ the one from— 

Jason can't even keep his thoughts straight. He feels dizzy and nauseous, and his attempt to free himself goes absolutely nowhere when the man scoops him up, carrying him back towards the bedroom.

"No," Jason says quietly, but that's all he can manage.

When he wakes, he's back in bed, staring at the ceiling. It's dark, and Jason has to take a moment to try and figure things out. How long has he been there? It was dark, then it was maybe mid morning or late afternoon...?

At least thirty six hours, he guesses. Probably more. He still feels groggy, but there's an edge of pain to it now that Jason's thankful for. It means he's less drugged up.

He's still not tied up. He keeps expecting to be, keep waiting to move and find his momentum halted by a chain around his ankle or something cliche like that, but instead he's completely free.

He tries the windows first, but they're sealed shut. He can't remember if he knew that, or even if it's a new thing. Were Bruce's windows always like this?

The door opens when he tries it, but Jason hesitates before he steps through. It's all too easy, and the whole thing feels like a trap.

But he can't  _ not _ try, so he grabs one of the sheets off the bed, wrapping it around him like a toga to give him some semblance of modesty, and leaves the room.

He doesn't go for the window this time. Instead he heads towards the lobby, expecting every step to be found by someone. Every time he turns the corner he braces himself to run into someone, but he manages to make it all the way to the lobby without issue.

He's going to leave. That's the plan. Somehow—because it doesn't make any sense and he knows it—he can just  _ leave. _ He can just walk out.

But there's the smell of something familiar in the air. Something cooking in the kitchen. The faint noises of pots being moved around.

Jason doubles back.

He shouldn't be surprised, and yet he is.

"Alfred," Jason chokes out. The man's standing in the kitchen, right in the middle of making a meal as if everything was perfectly normal, and when Jason speaks he turns, his face pale, expression drawn.

"Master Jason," he says. "I would like to say that it's good to see you, but I had hoped you would have made it out."

"Didn't get a chance," Jason says, suddenly self conscious of his... his everything. His nudity. The brand, even if it can't be seen. His entire  _ state. _

"Unfortunately," Alfred says quietly. He's already ladling out a bowl of soup, holding it out for Jason to take. "Sit," he adds. "Eat."

There is an unspoken  _ while you have the chance _ which fills Jason with dread.

They eat in silence. Jason doesn't have the energy to make small talk, and he doesn't even know where to start with the rest. What could he even ask? 'Hey, who's the lunatic who branded me?' That would go over well.

Someone clears their throat behind Jason and he freezes. They have to be standing in the doorway, watching him eat, but a stupid, childish part of him feels like if he just stays still, maybe they won't bother him any more.

Alfred's no longer looking at him. Instead, he's looking past him, staring at the man in the doorway.

"He needs to eat," he says. "He needs his strength."

Alfred's presence does clarify at least a few things for him. It explains who took care of the brand, because he can't imagine the bastard who gave it to him neatly bundling him up.

Jason can't make himself keep eating, though. His stomach is doing flips. He's too weak to put up much of a fight, and with Alfred there... He's obviously a hostage.

For that matter,  _ Jason's _ probably a hostage.

Not that it really matters. Alfred's all they need.

He hears each footstep like it's a fucking death knell as the man behind him approaches, and when his hand comes down to rest on Jason's shoulder it's all Jason can do not to slam the bowl into his face. It won't do anything. He's still too weak, and Alfred... he can't risk it. He can't risk Alfred getting hurt.

"Back to your room," the man behind him says. "Once you're done eating. Then we can talk."

Jason's done eating. He doesn't think he'd be able to force any more down if he tried, and what he did eat is in danger of coming right back up. He stays still as the man retreats, leaving him and Alfred alone.

Or alone enough. Jason's sure they're being watched. Even ignoring the man himself, Bane's still  _ somewhere. _

"I'm sorry, Alf," Jason says quietly. "I think we're fucked."

Alfred reaches out, resting a hand on Jason's arm, and gives him an unconvincing smile. Jason's sure it's supposed to be comforting, but it isn't.

"We've been in worse situations," he says. "I'm sure we'll figure something out."

It's a sure sign of how dire their situation is that Alfred doesn't even admonish him for swearing.

Jason leaves Alfred in the kitchen and goes back to his room. The house feels empty and solemn, and Jason feels like something has already been irreparably broken. He's not sure if it's the brand or just a  _ feeling, _ but he knows things aren't going back to how they were.

Bane's in the manor. Someone else has stolen Bruce's mantle.

Jason hesitates at the bedroom door. It's closed, and he's not sure if he's supposed to knock or not, but eventually he simply opens the door, stepping inside. The bedroom is empty as far as he can tell, so he closes the door behind him, taking a few more steps inside.

"Good," a voice says, and Jason spins, catching himself before he can topple. The bastards standing right in the room's blind spot, blocked by the door when it was open.

But that matters a lot less than the fact that Jason recognizes him. He's never met him before—there's no way he could have—but it's impossible not to recognize the man whose face hangs in the manor portrait gallery, even if he's far older than he was in the painting.

"T—Thomas  _ Wayne?" _ Jason chokes. There's no way. It doesn't make any goddamn sense. It doesn't make any... none of it. It has to be a lie or some kind of trick or  _ something. _

Thomas takes a step forward, and Jason only just manages to keep himself from taking a step back in response. He holds his ground, clenching his jaw, and trying not to show any sign of the fear he's feeling.

"Yes," Thomas says. "I see you understand the situation already."

The situation. The  _ fucking situation? _

"I'm a hostage," he says. "That's what this is."

He wants Thomas to say yes. He desperately, desperately wants for him to just say  _ yes, you're a hostage. _

"No," Thomas says, his voice hard. "Alfred is the hostage. If any member of the family steps inside city limits, he'll be killed."

Not him. Of course not him.

Jason bares his teeth.

"Who came up with that?"

"Alfred did," Thomas says, and Jason only just manages to hide his surprise. "He wanted to keep the family safe, and felt that would be the best way. Bane accepted his suggestion."

"Then—" Jason has to stop himself, forcing himself to take a deep breath before he continues. "Then why am I here?"

He isn't necessary. Thomas could have let him clear out with the rest of the family, and instead he went and fucking kidnapped him. Branded him. Made him—

No, he's not thinking about that.

"I thought that would be obvious," Thomas says. "We're two of a kind. You can do far more to help Gotham at my side then you ever could have bowing your head to my son."

Jason suppresses a shiver, and he doesn't stop himself from inching backwards.

"I'm not—I don't know what you take me for, but I'm not siding with you lunatics. I'm not siding with  _ Bane. _ You fucking—you  _ branded _ me!"

The rage is bubbling up, and Jason can't stop himself. He wants to hit something. He wants to  _ hurt _ someone. Thomas, himself, it doesn't really matter.

"To show you," Thomas says. He steps forward, closing the distance so fast that Jason can't even jerk back fast enough. His hand darts out, catching Jason's wrist as he jerks him towards him. "You've been so beaten down by them. It was my son's mistake."

"No, I—" Fuck, why can't he figure out what to say? Why can't he find the right words?

"My son has broken you down over and over again, and it's a miracle you're still standing. You stepped one toe out of line, and rather than stopping to wonder  _ why, _ he instead chose to beat you so badly he broke your arm."

How long has he been watching? How much does he know? The words feel like iron in Jason's throat. He can't open his mouth. He can't speak.

"You deserve better than this," Thomas says. "That's why you're here. That's why I sought you out. I chose you because you are the best of them, and none of them recognize that. I came to this world to save my son, but after having seen what he's done, I choose instead to save the person he's hurt the most."

Jason doesn't want any of this. He wants... he wants to sleep. To not think. He tries to pull back, but Thomas simply moves forward, wrapping an arm around Jason's lower back and pulling him closer, preventing him from retreating further.

"No," Jason chokes. It's a trick. It's a trap. He  _ knows _ that. He knows that Thomas is only telling him those things because he knows Jason wants to hear them.

But it doesn't change the fact that he's still hearing them. It doesn't change that he's hearing all the words he's wanted desperately to hear from Bruce, even if they're coming from another mouth.

"Yes," Thomas says. His hands rise up, tracing gently across the bandages, and Jason feels a twinge of pain, muddled by the painkillers. "Do you know why I branded you?"

Jason swears he said it already. That he gave some stupid reason. But right then he can't even think. He can't put the words together and figure out the answer.

"No."

"Because it's my brand," Thomas says. "My symbol, not his. So that every day you can remember that he no longer has any control of your life. So that when you look in the mirror, you remember that there's someone who is watching over you."

So Jason remembers who  _ owns _ him.

And the fact that it isn't Bruce.

Jason lets out a sob, trying to pull away.

"I don't want this," he says. He doesn't. He tells himself that over and over, hoping that it will stay true if he does.

"You will," Thomas says. "There's plenty of time for me to show you that I'm being genuine. Before long, the Bats will return to Gotham—"

"They won't," Jason says. Thomas is wrong. "Alfred's here. They won't risk doing anything. They'll send—they'll send a member of the Justice League instead." He'd almost feel bad about warning Thomas, except Thomas's expression is twisted into one of sadness.

He looks upset.

"No, Jason," Thomas says, resting a hand on his shoulder. "They won't send someone else. They'll be arrogant. They'll believe they can handle things on their own. That's their way. It always has been, and it always will be, until they break so badly they can't be put back together. They will come, and then Bane will order me to kill Alfred, and I'll have no choice."

No.

Jason furiously shakes his head.

"No," he says out loud. He has to say it, to speak it to life. His  _ disbelief. _ "They won't. They wouldn't put Alfred's life at risk."

They wouldn't. He refuses to believe it. There's no circumstance where he can imagine them doing it. They wouldn't do something they  _ know _ would get Alfred killed. He's too important. He matters too much to them.

"I'm sorry, Jason," Thomas says, "but it will happen. I just want you to be prepared. To enjoy the time you still have with him."

Jason shatters. He falls to his knees, and the only thing that keeps him from hitting the floor is Thomas scooping him up, depositing him safely on the bed. He wants to be left alone, but instead Thomas wraps his arms around him, pulling Jason closer as he showers him in affection.

It's too much. It's overwhelming.

And above it all, Jason reminds himself, over and over, that he doesn't have to worry about it.

They'd never do something that would put Alfred at risk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they do come, it's too late.

They descend into the cave together. For each of them, the cave holds a special kind of importance. It's a second home, a place with strong memories, and they return to it like a child coming home after a long time away.

They each know the twists and turns. They know where to step and where not to step. They know where to find the storage rooms, and where the security lays.

They know how to go quietly, even though there are so many of them.

Tim would not have come alone. He comes with friends, with allies.

With _ family. _

Kate, Cassandra, Duke, Helena, Barbara, and himself.

Soon they'll find Damian.

And even as they traverse the cave, Tim knows that Bruce and Selina move elsewhere.

Everything is as it should be. Everything is in place.

As they approach, Tim lets himself listen in absolute silence to what's happening ahead. He hears the voice of Thomas Wayne, the false Batman, as he turns away from the only choice that might have saved him.

"I can't," he says. "Not my family."

Tim's only half listening as Damian lectures him. As he tells Thomas that he _ isn't _ family. That he never was.

They fan out, trapping Thomas where he stands. His resistance is weak, half-hearted. He doesn't even really put up a fight.

Tim disarms him, knocking his gun from his hand to the floor. He has more gear, but it doesn't matter. There are too many of them, and only one of him.

It's Duke who lands the first blow. He strikes Thomas across the head with a _ crack, _ and opens his mouth to start talking—to tell him what they decided—and then there's a deafening bang.

In the enclosed space, Tim's ears ring. One of Duke's eskrima sticks is cracked in half, and entirely without discussion, everyone's fallen back a half step.

Red Hood is standing in the shadows of the cave, one gun raised, the other at the ready.

"Jason," Tim says. It's a relief. He'd thought Jason wouldn't be here for this. He was worried he wouldn't have a chance at revenge. He knows—_ knew _—how much Alfred meant to Jason, and his inability to get in contact with him has weighed on Tim.

Dick not being there was bad enough, but Jason?

"He's dead," Jason says, his voice hard like flint. Tim feels a shiver run down his spine, and all of a sudden he's wondering if somewhere along the line he's made a mistake.

Something's wrong with the situation.

"What?" Helena asks, glancing between them. Thomas is simply standing there. He's doing nothing. He's not defending himself. He's not running.

Something is wrong about the situation.

"Alfred," Jason says. He doesn't lower his gun, and Tim realizes that it's pointed directly at Duke.

Not at Thomas.

Holy _ fuck. _

"Jason," Tim says desperately. "Listen, we can talk this out—"

Damian looks at him like he's gone nuts.

"Talk _ what _ out?" Damian snaps. "We are here to get revenge for Pennyworth—"

"Alfred is dead because _ you _ broke the rules," Jason says. "Because none of _ you _ could bother to think about someone else for ten fucking seconds."

No one seems to know what to say until Thomas speaks.

"He made children fight for him. He's become so lost in his own crusade that he thinks putting weapons in the hands of those he should be taking care of is the right choice."

"He's wrong," Jason says. "He's wrong,and you've all bought into it."

"What—what the _ hell _ are you talking about?" Duke says. "He—don't tell me you're with _ him." _

Duke stares at Jason in abject horror, jabbing in Thomas's direction with his broken eskrima stick. He can't believe it. None of them can.

Except Tim.

Tim can believe it. He just doesn't want to.

"We're family," Jason says, his lips drawing back to show teeth. He's angry, the kind of anger that lets people do awful things. "We're _ family. _ That's why you came for Damian."

They're family, but they didn't realize where he was. Tim doesn't have even a sliver of doubt about where Jason's been for the past few months. He's been _ here. _

"Jay," Barbara says. She sounds desperate. Tim is trying as hard as he can to figure out what he needs to do. There has to be a solution, a way out. A way to get them _ all _ out.

"He's a traitor," Damian says. "That's what this is. He's siding with the man who killed Pennyworth."

"No," Jason snaps. "If I was, I'd be siding with you. He chose to be a hostage to keep you safe. There are a dozen ways you could have saved him, and instead you chose to pick a fight with Batman—"

"He's not Batman," Kate snaps. "He's a fraud, and if you've been taken in by his lies, you're farther gone than I thought."

"I spoke for you," Jason says, "when Bruce put you on trial."

"Wait, what?" Duke says. "When she was on _ trial?" _

"Not allowed," Cassandra says quietly.

They've already lost, Tim realizes. He can see the chance of success slipping through his fingers. Thomas and Jason have sowed discord amongst them. They can no longer work as a team.

"Family is only family to you when it benefits you," Jason says. _ "Family _ wouldn't have let Damian go into the city. _ Family _ would have tried to negotiate with Claire. _ Family _ wouldn't have done this."

"Just tell us what you want," Helena snaps. "Obviously you're leading into something."

Jason levels his gun at Helena's face.

"Get the hell out of our city."

_ "Your _ city?" Damian says. He's almost laughing, and Tim wants to bury his face in his hands. They can't do it like this. Things were going so well and now Thomas and Jason have stolen all the momentum they had going. "Who gave you the right to claim _ my _ city, Todd?"

"We need to go," Tim says, and Damian turns, looking absolutely disgusted.

"Coward," he says.

"This is why you've lost," Thomas says. "You aren't a family. You don't have each others backs. You're children, squabbling because your father won't give you the attention you deserve."

Damian swings, and the room devolves into a brawl.

Tim doesn't join in. He stands at the sidelines, watching as every bit of planning they've done in the past two weeks falls to pieces.

Thomas and Jason are a perfectly matched pair. They react to each other's movements almost instinctively, acting as if they've been fighting together for years. Tim doesn't understand how they could work together so well, but he understands why his side—if it even counts as that—falls to pieces so terribly.

Duke is uncertain, wracked by doubt. He feels like an outsider, excluded from the _ real _family, oblivious to something as important as Kate's trial. He drops first when Thomas takes advantage of his hesitation.

Helena's anger is almost feigned. She has the least connection to them, and no connection to speak of with Alfred. She doesn't know the cave the way they do, and Jason uses it to his advantage to drop her.

Barbara goes after Jason, enraged, and he uses her rage against her, flattening her.

Damian has eyes only for Thomas. Jason doesn't even register to him as a threat, and he goes after the older man with all the arrogance of a child.

It's like he's learned nothing, and Thomas makes him pay for it.

Kate has the best chance of those fighting. She could be good. She could be a real threat. But against the combined force of Thomas and Jason, there's no chance, and she goes down hard.

Cassandra stands alone, watching the brawl. With everyone else down, Thomas takes a moment to reload his gun, and Jason turns to her, looing her over.

"Buried?" Cassandra asks, and Jason nods.

"I buried him myself," Jason says. "Thomas helped. We had a funeral for him."

Cassandra nods and says nothing else.

Jason turns, his expression blank. He's not angry. Whatever rage he once had is gone. His fire's been replaced by ice.

"Tim." 

Tim's mouth is dry. He can't stop himself from replaying what happened over and over again in his head, trying to find the point where the flow turned against him. Trying to find the point where they lost.

He feels like they lost before they even stepped foot in the cave.

They lost the moment they sent Damian into the city.

No. The moment they lost was even before that: they lost the moment none of them realized Jason was still in Gotham.

"We'll go," Tim says. "Just let me take them, and we'll go."

He expects for Thomas to say no. He expects Thomas to say _ you're our captives now. _ Instead, he looks to Jason, who glances at him and then nods to Tim.

"Don't come back," Jason says.

Then he turns away and leaves the cave, Thomas trailing behind him without a word.

* * *

The plan is simple. Bruce almost doesn't believe it's going to work. All he has to do is appeal to Bane's sense of pride.

No masks.

No help.

Selina watches, amused, as they strip down to almost nothing.

And then they fight. It's a brawl, hard and fast, and Bruce knows he would lose by himself.

But he is not alone. Selina is there, and she won't allow him to do something as stupid as throwing his life away.

They're going to win.

Bruce can almost taste it as he lifts Bane. It takes everything he has, hearing the man above him scream.

He's going to break him.

Gotham's going to be his again.

There's a _ bang _ —no, two _ bangs, _ so fast they almost sound like one—and Bruce wheezes as he drops.

Thomas.

His father is standing in the doorway, holding the gun that just shot him. Bruce's hand comes up, finding the holes there. He can't tell if anything important's been hit.

"Thomas," Bane slurs, his words garbled by the broken nose Bruce gave him.

There's another _ bang _ and Bane drops.

Bruce wheezes, trying to apply pressure to his wounds as he looks up. If he's going to die, he at least wants to be facing Thomas as he does.

But when he looks up, Bruce's heart drops.

Thomas isn't alone. Standing behind him is the last person Bruce expected to see.

Jason's blank expression stares down at him as Bruce loses consciousness.

* * *

Thomas rests a hand on Jason's shoulder. He can't bring himself to move, frozen in space as he watches blood seep from Bruce's torso.

"The choice is yours," Thomas says.

That was what he always promised. That if things played out the way they did, Jason would get to decide. He could choose what ending he wanted.

He could kill Bruce then and there for all he's done. Or he could let Thomas do it.

He suspects that's what Thomas wants. Even if Thomas travelled to a completely different dimension for his son, he no longer wants him. He's seen the things Bruce has done. He's seen the damage he's caused. He's seen the scars and the suffering and wants no part in it.

"No," Jason says after a moment. "He isn't any different from them. We throw him out of the city, just like we do with anyone else who comes in uninvited. Her too." His eyes sweep briefly to Selina, and then away. She's nothing. Just another pawn in the game Bruce plays with the world.

Thomas squeezes his shoulder, and then his hand dips lower, brushing across Jason's pec.

Across the brand there.

They're rid of Bane. The family won't return for a long time still. They've won, and Gotham is theirs.

But there's still anger there, even if Jason doesn't want to acknowledge it.

"Tell me what to do," he says, his voice desperate.

He just needs to be told.

"Break his arm," Thomas says. "He broke yours, so return the favor. So he won't forget."

Jason does. It's easy, with Bruce prone and helpless, but it brings him no satisfaction when he hears the _ crack _of bones breaking.

He turns away and Thomas gathers Jason into his arms.

"You did well," Thomas says. "You did so well. Now we can do what's needed. We can make Gotham safe in a way Bruce was never willing to."

"I can stay with you?"

It's a small, pathetic question. He already knows the answer, and there's no reason to ask, but he wants to hear the words. He needs the reassurance.

"Of course," Thomas says, his fingers combing through Jason's hair as he leans forward, pressing his forehead against Jason's. The masks are in the way, but it hardly matters. "You're right where you belong."

Jason lets out a quiet sob of relief.

That's all he's ever wanted.


End file.
